by Josh Lanyon
John did look up at that.
“He looks healthy enough.”
“Oh, he’s perfectly healthy. He just…isn’t happy with me anymore.”
John made a faint sound of…not quite amusement, not quite dismissal, but close. Pye heard it too. He yowled, let me feel his claws as he scrambled off my shoulders and jumped to the barstool next to mine. He departed the den with a rude snap of his tail.
Great.
I sighed. I loved Pye. His decision to leave was yet another lousy piece of news in a day peppered with ill tidings.
“I want you to try this. It’s a vintage port,” John said, handing me a tall glass filled less than halfway with rich, ruby-colored wine.
“Okay.”
“It’s like vintage champagne in that they’re not made every year. Port houses decide individually if a year is exceptional enough to make a single vintage port.”
“Ah.”
“¡Arriba.” He touched the rim of his glass to mine.
“Abajo,” I said, and we touched the bases.
“Al centro.” We clicked the bowls.
“Adentro.” We drank. I added, “Abracadabra.”
John laughed, leaned across the bar, and kissed me. His mouth was warm and tasted like port—sort of deep and sweet with plum and berry notes. “You’re cute.”
“Cute?” I snorted.
He laughed again. It occurred to me he was more buzzed than I’d realized. Perfect. I was driving him to drink.
He held his glass up, studying the deep ruby liquid. “Your father is…”
“Go ahead. Say it.”
“Not what I expected.” He added, “But I like him. He’s…likable.”
I laughed. For an instant, John’s dimples showed. It felt like years since I’d seen those little indentations in his lean cheeks.
“And I like you,” he said. “A lot.”
“That’s a good place to start.”
“It’s kind of weird, I know, but I kind of like it that you care whether your cat is unhappy.”
“Of course I care. And he’s not just a cat—” I stopped myself.
“Yeah, but that’s it. Nothing is just a…whatever with you.” John shrugged. “It’s…different. Endearing, I guess.”
“Thank you.” I hid my face behind my wineglass. I knew what this was—besides booze, I mean. More and more, he was analyzing what he felt for me. Sifting through his emotions. He was sharing the positives with me, but there were probably an equal number of negatives he wasn’t sharing.
John sipped his port, meditated, said, “It was a good party tonight.”
“Yes. It really was. You—and Nola—did a wonderful job arranging everything.”
His mouth curved in a small, satisfied smile. “Yep. Even Endora had to admit it was nearly good enough for her only son.”
I cleared my throat nervously.
He said thoughtfully, “I was surprised to hear you had a sister, Cos.”
“I know. It was a long time ago, and I don’t think about it as much as maybe I should.”
John didn’t say anything.
“I’ve never known the details, but after that, everything changed between my parents. They were already separated—well, I mean, they were never married to start with—but that completely divided them.”
“Unfortunately, I think that’s pretty common.” He said after a moment, “I don’t think I realized how much family you have locally. For some reason I thought most of your relatives were in France.”
“They travel a lot. But it’s not as though we do birthdays and Thanksgiving. You won’t have to see them often.”
He nodded, and despite his stoic expression, I thought he was relieved.
I said, “Why did Sergeant Bergamasco skip the rehearsal and the rehearsal dinner?”
John’s face went completely and carefully neutral. “Pete feels that participating in wedding-related events is going to have the appearance of bias and might ultimately compromise portions of the investigation into Reitherman’s homicide.”
“Oh.”
“And he’s right. Not about everything, but he’s right about that.”
“Yes. I’m sure he is.”
Bergamasco was another cop who believed I murdered Seamus. Was that the universal view? Probably. I wondered how much pressure John was having to exert to keep me out of jail.
John finished his port, rinsed the glass, and said, “Do we have a set of sheets for that bed upstairs?”
“It’s a weird thing about this bed. It always looks way too small for one of us, let alone both of us, but there’s more than enough room.” John and I had finished making up the Victorian black and bronze bed in the master bedroom. John had been impressed at my ability to accurately “guess” three sets of new sheets from the stack of wedding presents downstairs. We’d compromised on the embossed lavender linen set from my cousin Lucretia.
“It’s the angle of the room,” I said. And then, because apparently it was a night for awkward questions, “If you thought the bed was too small, why did you bid on it?”
“I wanted it for Jinx. It’s a beautiful piece, and I know she likes that mumbo-jumbo witchy stuff.”
I laughed.
He hung his shirt in the armoire. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Even the bed—the impetus that had brought us together—had never been intended to bring us together.
We finished undressing, me once again managing to keep John from seeing my bruised shoulder. I climbed into bed—the mattress was new, and firmer than I liked—and John turned off the overhead light from the switch beside the door. He crossed the floor, walking through the shadows, and something about him, the quiet, powerful way he moved, his naked body striped by moonlight, reminded me of a tiger on the prowl.
The mattress dipped beneath him as he moved beside me, leaned over me. His mouth found mine, his kiss hot and unexpectedly hungry. I kissed him back. His kiss deepened. His hand moved restively, questingly over me, groped between my legs, found my balls. He squeezed gently, I gasped, and his tongue pushed into my mouth.
Not that John had ever been the shy, retiring type, but there was a hint of aggression in his kisses and caresses that was new. I didn’t mind it, but the sudden surge of possessiveness made me wonder. All down the length of my body, I could feel his heat and hardness pressing into me. His mouth moved demandingly on my own, and I tried to answer that insistence, but I began to consider if what I was ready to offer was going to be enough tonight.
I tore my face away, breathing hard, touching fingertips to my bruised mouth.
John said roughly, “God, I want you.”
“You have me. Every inch of me.”
“Not every inch,” he said softly, meaningfully.
I smiled, pretending I thought he was joking, and kissed him more lightly.
He groaned, a low, heartfelt sound. “You don’t want to, do you?”
“Of course I want to.”
“Well, then? We’re getting married the day after tomorrow.”
“And there have been times today when the promise of our wedding night has been all that’s kept me going.”
Not fair, I know, but perfectly true. I felt him absorb it, and said, “You know, you never finished telling me why you decided to ask me to marry you.”
John’s sigh was warm against my face and edged with exasperation. But he said, “Why? You mean aside from loving you and wanting—very much, in case you haven’t noticed—to have sex with you every night and every morning?”
“Aside from that, yes. You’ve already said you never wanted to marry, never planned on marrying. So what made you change your mind?”
He said a little irritably, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
I said nothing.
“The truth? It makes sense. You’re rich. You’re socially connected. You’re…” He seemed unsure of the word.
“What?”
“You’ve got the right
style. The right manners. The right taste. Together, we’ll make a great team. Like tonight. You were the perfect host. No one who didn’t know would think for a moment anything was wrong. You were charming, considerate to everyone. You were…beautiful.”
I almost forgave him the wealth, social connections, manners, and the rest for that quiet, almost wondering beautiful. I mean, I did forgive him—post love spell and pre murder conviction—for coming up with a host of sensible reasons for moving ahead with our marriage. He was a pragmatic and ambitious man. He thought in strategic terms. There were powerful and practical incentives for not marrying me now, but he was focused on finding reasons to move forward.
I appreciated that, but it wasn’t exactly heartwarming to hear my list of marriage-worthy credentials.
“I see. So you don’t love me. This is just—” A marriage of convenience. An alliance. Which was quite French, actually.
“Of course I love you. I’m crazy about you. I have to be to be going ahead with this wedding after everything that’s happened.”
He had a point.
“Plus, I like talking to you. I don’t think you’ll bore me anytime soon. And you are very, very sexy when you’re not holding the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Nobody ever expects the Spanish Inquisition,” I said. “Or the French Inquisition. Though by now we all should.”
John laughed, and I hooked my arm around his shoulders and drew him down.
We kissed…and then kissed some more…
“Do you think that damn cat’s going to watch us all night?” John muttered.
“Hm?” I raised my head, and sure enough, Pye, outlined in moonlight, sat in the window seat, gazing at us.
“Do you mind?” I said to him.
“I wouldn’t,” John replied, “except for my suspicion that he plans to smother me in my sleep.”
I swallowed a laugh. “His bark is worse than his bite.”
“You know he’s a cat, right?”
Pye made a sound of disgust, flipped me off with his tail, and departed.
John’s mouth found mine once more, heat and taste and scent blooming with each brush of lips, and I opened to him like the flowers of the white garden yielding to the moon’s kiss. Lovely, lovely. I lifted my lashes and saw the fuzzy glow of the painted stars on the ceiling. On the ceiling of our bedroom. Ours. Soon John would be my husband in law as well as in my heart.
But then John’s breathing roughened, his hands hardened. His mouth coaxed and grew demanding. I could feel his mounting dissatisfaction, his disappointment.
I murmured his name. Not a protest, just a reminder.
“Yes,” he insisted. His breath was hot and scented of ripe plums and sex.
For two weeks—fourteen nights—I’d managed to keep lust and longing—his and mine—in check, but now I was losing my balance. When I had been confident he loved me, it had been easy—well, easier. But now I was painfully aware that what John felt was at least partly an aftereffect of the love spell. This brand of belligerent desire? I didn’t believe that came naturally to someone as controlled as John.
What was driving it? Insecurity? Uncertainty?
When he rolled me onto my side and shoved his knee between my legs, I felt a flash of alarm. I did not want to fight him. It was the last thing I wanted, not least because I was also having to fight myself.
“Wait, no.” I wriggled over, gripping his shoulders, pushing him back. “John, no.”
I could feel his frustration, the temptation to ignore me and push ahead, trembling through him. He held himself in taut, precarious restraint.
“I know you want to. I can feel you want to.”
“I do want to. But…I don’t.”
He raised his head, and I could see the warning gleam in his eyes. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I mean, it’s important to me that we wait. Until we’re conso—until our union is consecrated.”
“Until we’re married? Seriously?”
“Yes. Seriously.”
“It’s the day after tomorrow. How the hell much difference does it make?”
“It makes a difference to me.”
“Jesus Christ, Cosmo. You’re a grown man. An adult male living in the 21st century. Not a-a Victorian maiden. Despite your taste in furniture.”
“Ouch,” I said.
John blew out a long, aggravated breath. “That was uncalled for. I apologize. I like your taste in furniture. But you can’t tell me someone as experienced, as sophisticated as you are in the sack has never—”
“I haven’t,” I said quickly. “Not that. Never. You’ll be the first to possess my body in sexual union.”
I didn’t expect the startled silence that followed.
He asked warily, “Um, and by first to possess my body in sexual union, are we talking about good old- fashioned sex or something else?”
“Well, yes. I mean fucking. Of course.”
“Of course. And I’m not going to end the, er, sexual union with an alien lifeform clamped to my face?”
Even I could hear the shakiness in my laugh. “I know I sound…”
“A little out of this world? Sweetheart, you have no idea.” But I felt his body relaxing, that belligerent thrust softening, and the kiss he dropped on my mouth was as resigned as his voice.
I was relieved, naturally, that he was conceding defeat, but at the same time my body felt surprisingly…hollow. Achy and strained, as though it had been prepared for something, some intense experience, that had not happened. Disappointment so strong, it was a physical reaction. I had to suppress my own longing, my own need, and return his kiss with equal restraint.
“It’s another of those French things,” I said on a sigh.
“And here I always thought the French were supposed to be the sexiest people on the planet.”
“No. That is, yes! I hope. It’s not necessarily all of France, but definitely the, er, area where my family is from that traditionally, sexual penetration—of man or woman—isn’t supposed to happen before the marriage vows.”
“What kind of archaic bullshit is that?”
I licked my lips, but I really couldn’t think of a better way to explain it.
“Look,” John said, “if you don’t like it, that’s one thing. But don’t pret—”
I put my fingers over his lips. “I am nervous,” I admitted. “But I know it will be good with you. I want it too. All of it. But I want it to happen the right way. I want—I know it sounds stupid to you—for us to be married first.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he kissed my fingertips, pulled my hand down. “If it’s that important to you, okay.”
Honestly? I didn’t expect him to give in so easily. Or at all.
“John, thank you.”
“Don’t sound so surprised. Your first time should be what you want. Hell, every time should be what you want. It’s only…I had no idea you were so traditional.”
“In some things I’m very traditional.”
“I’m not sure if that’s good news or bad.”
I said softly, “If you prefer to be on top, speaking physically and not metaphorically, it’s very good news.”
I felt him lean forward, peering at me through the darkness. He gave an odd laugh. “I…see. I’m… I did not see that coming. Literally.”
“Is it going to be a problem?” I was quite sure it was not. We’d put in a lot of practice over the past two weeks.
“I can’t say I object. I simply assumed you would want a…more equal distribution of power.”
I was amused, though not really surprised to find he held primitive notions regarding sexual roles in the relationship paradigm.
I murmured, “Oh, I think I’ll hold my own in any actual power struggle.” I rubbed my face lightly against his, flicked my tongue against his lips.
John’s laugh was a little sardonic. “Even I’m starting to believe it…”
Chapter Twelve
I fell asleep.
>
Deeply, dreamlessly.
That’s the simple truth. The last twenty-four hours had been the most exhausting and emotionally draining of my life, and despite my plan to head straight for the Creaky Attic once I knew John was out, I fell asleep before he did.
I woke a little after three, startled out of a near-coma by someone shouting my name.
I sat up, wide-eyed and listening. My ears echoed with the sound of that cry. I glanced over: John still slept beside me, face half-buried in his pillow. I realized that the voice had been inside my head.
A summoning spell.
Oliver.
Oh no. Oh Goddess. How could I have forgotten? How had I let myself fall asleep?
Oliver had been terrified at the idea of going to the Creaky Attic at all, and I had left him to do it alone.
I put my face in my hands, concentrating, trying to reach out to him…but there was nothing.
A blank emptiness.
No Oliver.
No anyone.
Not only was no one reaching out, no one was even listening.
I edged cautiously off the mattress, feeling for my clothes in the darkness. I could see Pye’s eyes gleaming from the window seat.
Pouvez-vous m’aider?
Two narrow green flashlight beams pinpointed my crumpled black jeans and discarded black T-shirt.
Merci.
I snatched them up, dressing quickly, quietly—freezing every time John sighed or shifted—and tiptoed downstairs. There was a doorway in the armoire, naturally, but the hinges squeaked a little, and I could not take the chance of John’s sharp ears registering any furtive noises.
It was hard to believe no witch had lived in that house in eighty years, but so it was. There were no other doorways in the house. I had previously declined to create them, determined not to use any magic once I was married to John, but now I was second-guessing that decision.
I slipped out the front door, locking it behind me. The windows in the townhouses across the way were all dark, a hundred panes reflecting the moon’s sharp smile.
The night air was scented of smog. Crickets and distant traffic were my accompaniment as I hiked up the driveway and down the street until I came to a familiar side street.
I raised my hands, spoke the words, and the door appeared. I walked through and stepped out on Valencia Street.
